Dear John
by strawberrywine17
Summary: One hour. That's all Sherlock allows himself. One hour, every day, to give himself over to the memory of John Watson. One hour, one daily letter, in the hopes of preventing the darkness sadness and fear swallow him whole. John will never read them, but he writes them nevertheless. / Post-Reichenbach, Pre-HLV
1. Day 1

_A/N- This is a little multichap project that will span the two years of Sherlock's self inflicted exile. Updates will be quick & sporadic, and each letter will be a new chapter. I may post one chapter in a week, and others I might post four or five chapters in a night. _

_It does center around JohnLock (though unrequited), just so you know! However, there will also be letters to other people, including heavy hints of Sherstrade and maybe a tad Sherlolly. It will also deal heavily with drug abuse, violence, death, depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts._

 _More will be coming soon, but I wanted to publish this on the anniversary of the day Sherlock and John met. Happy January 29th! Cheers to John Watson and his madman!_

 _Please enjoy!_

* * *

Dear John,

I'm not sure why I'm writing to you. You think that I'm dead. Which, of course, is only reasonable. I did force you to watch me throw myself off of the roof of Bart's. Not exactly a pleasant farewell, I suppose. But it worked, you're safe, that's what matters.

Anyway, I've decided to write letters to you when I can. You run around my head all too much; I can't risk thinking of you when I'm supposed to be taking down Moriarty's web. It is very likely that any distraction I might have would aid me in staying alive. I need the entirety of my brain power to deal with these people. Therefore, I am allotting half an hour every day to you, should I need it. I would have simply tucked you away, locked the door to your room in my mind palace, but you are nothing if not stubborn. I couldn't lock you up; you kept spilling out at the edges, breaking down the door with your good shoulder, picking the lock from the inside. I'm not sure how you did it. There's not a lock on the inside of that door.

I'm sending these letters to Mycroft. He has agreed to do with them as he pleases, as well as to never read them. Whether he saves them or destroys them I do not care, so long as they are not read. This will be the last piece of privacy that I have for a very long time to come.

Right. Your hour is up. I hope you are doing well- as well as can be expected, anyway- and that I might be able to see you again soon. Things will get better. You just have to believe in me.

Faithfully yours,

SH


	2. Day 2

Dear John,

This really feels stupid. I hope you know that. To you, I'm dead. That's it. Full stop. Why can't I just pretend that you're similarly indisposed? Writing to you did help, and I was able to close your door for most of today, but that does not make writing these any easier.

I know. I shouldn't have any problem writing these. You're not the one that's supposed to be dead. I haven't lost you. Even if you had somehow met your demise in the two weeks I've been gone, Mycroft would have informed me. He promised me that much, at least. You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson are safe. You don't like surveillance on you, but you have to understand. I saved you. I'm not going to let you be in danger just because I'm not there with you. So stay out of trouble, will you? I have no plans to reenact Romeo and Juliet.

Ignore the romantic implications in that.

I'm rambling. Hopefully I can get better at this in the future. Or stop thinking about you so much. Then I won't even need to write these. It would be the preferable outcome. In the meantime, you won't mind my drabble. It might be boring at times, but that's because some of the places I go to will have less than honorable governments and mailing systems. I might end up sending letters in bulk if I'm in a truly awful place. I'd rather that than to risk our safety.

Burning these would probably be better than sending them to Mycroft, honestly. I tried to do that, with yesterday's. That's why one corner is blackened. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't go through with it. I'm not sure why. Probably some sentiment that my brain is still holding on to. Irritating. I'll fix it soon enough. This one is probably a little burned too, since I'm going to try again. It will likely still be sent.

But enough dwelling on that. Mrs. Hudson is feeding you, yes? I know how you get when you're sad. You gained at least a stone in the first three months of us living together. No, I'm not calling you fat. I'm saying you gained a healthy amount once you were no longer in that awful bedsit. I don't know if you noticed, but it helped me a little bit, too. Not sure how. Somehow, not everything tasted like ash, like a distraction, when you were around.

Anyway. Keep eating. If I come home and see you've lost weight, I'll be rather cross. I'll see you soon.

Faithfully yours,  
SH


	3. Day 3

Dear John,

This is actually very effective. I only thought of you seven times today. That is quite a rapid improvement. Though I can't say that it's exactly what I want. I am aiming for thinking of you only once- when I write these letters, and only then. Still, I suppose hoping for results overnight is a bit ludicrous of me. I'm doing very well, all things considered.

My first mission is going to be in Slovenia. It's a small country, but it'll be easy to blend in there. I'm heading out tomorrow; today I had to put together a disguise. Which leads me to ask: how can you stand your hair so short? Or blonde? I've done both to mine to help keep me indistinguishable from undesirables. After all, should anyone in Moriarty's network find out that I'm still alive, there is a high chance that they'll come back after you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson again. I can't risk that, obviously. I have to say that I don't think even you would recognize me after this… Makeover. I hesitate to call it that, but that's effectively what it is, I suppose.

There's a drug trafficking ring there, in Slovenia. There's word about Moran- that's Moriarty's second in command- hanging about around there. Mycroft thinks that if we take out Moran, then the rest of the operations will fall apart. Like setting a flame in the middle of a spiderweb and letting it spread out on its own. According to that theory, I should be able to return home in about two months. A little late to keep you from mourning, but I figure by then you'll have gotten over my absence. In fact, I'm sure you'll have a girlfriend at the end of this month. You'll wait until after the funeral- you will attend, won't you? It may not be real, but I suppose the symbolism is the same- and give yourself a week or two, and then you'll go out looking for a date again. Don't worry. You'll be able to spend all the time you want to on her. I won't be there to mess it up for you this time. I'm sure whoever she is, she'll be more than happy to be in a steady relationship with you. Despite what I usually say, anyone would be lucky to have you.

Mycroft said that my funeral is in two days. I'm not sure how he's going to pull it off. Maybe it'll be a closed casket funeral. The body double, while very similar to me, still isn't me, and I'm not sure if you or Lestrade wouldn't notice that something was off. I'd not usually give you the credit of it, but after living together this long, it's entirely possible that you might notice a fake when not face down on the pavement.

Sorry. That's probably not the best thing for you to remember right now.

Either way, it needs to go smoothly. If you notice something's off about it, just forget about it, okay? Just let it go. Believe that I'm dead. I need you to do that for me. No matter what inconsistencies you think you've found, you need to think that it's just because you can't process what happened to me. It's for your own safety. I wouldn't ask you to ignore the obvious if it wasn't vitally important to both of our sakes. And believe Mycroft's acting. He's not as good as I am, I have to admit, but believe him. He's going to manipulate his emotions and he's going to pretend that he's lost me, and you have to buy into it.

Mrs. Hudson won't look at my body. She's already said so. No, she doesn't know that I'm alive, but I've been in enough dangerous situations and been laid up in the hospital enough times that she's made that clear. I'm not sure what good not looking at my body does her, but that's her choice. I'm not sure how Lestrade will act, though. You don't know it, but he and I have quite the history. He's known me for longer than he said he has, and we've been through a lot together. Or because of each other. Both ways, actually. Basically, whatever he does, forgive him. If he goes, if he doesn't, whatever, just… Let him do what he needs to do. Don't hold it against him.

That's all the time I have for you today. Sorry again about the pavement comment. I'll try to refrain from referencing that in future letters. I'll see you soon.

Faithfully yours,  
SH


	4. Day 4

Dear John,

Slovenia is a beautiful place. There are rolling green hills and huge castles, and the capitol itself looks almost like it was taken straight out of a fairy tale. I'm not fond of such sentimentalities, but I despise not telling the truth even more, and so you can be sure that I am giving you nothing but facts. The food is odd, but not too terrible, and draws strong parallels to its Italian roots. I think you would like it here. Perhaps, when I return, we can go on a vacation. Considering my disguise is working wonderfully, I don't doubt that we would be safe from any stragglers left from my mission here.

Actually, that's not true. I don't intend to leave any stragglers. You're not going to get these, no matter what Mycroft decides to do with them, so there's no need to lie, I suppose.

I got a day to settle in. I went sightseeing for a bit, but it was mostly to scope out the area. Mycroft is starting me off easy, making my first missions not too difficult in order to get used to living like this. He hasn't said that, but I can tell, considering I was able to point out three different frequent stops of this drug trafficking business within three hours of the plane landing. It'll be a piece of cake. For the rest, however, I'm sure I won't be able to say the same. Getting to Moran will be difficult, but so long as all the information Mycroft has been given is correct, the estimate of coming home is still the same. His informants are supposedly very reliable, so don't worry too much.

The hotel is nice, too. I think Lestrade would enjoy the pastries that are sold outside. If we go on vacation here, we'll have to send a couple back to him. Or a souvenir or two. Oh, hell. We might as well bring him along. You wouldn't be too upset with that, would you? He's important to me; it'd be my apology for being gone and for tricking him. Not that he wouldn't forgive me before that. The idiot is always forgiving me for my stupidity. At least this time my stupidity would be saving lives instead of putting them in danger. Hopefully that would counteract any disappointment he might have in me.

I'm very glad these letters will never reach you.

Anyway, I have a new name now. It will change a lot. Every time I move to a different location, adopt a new disguise, need a different name, my identity will change with it. Right now, I'm Stephen Jones. Dull. Boring. But that's exactly what I need. The receptionist at the hotel didn't even blink. Not a single twitch to suggest she might suspect who I was. Granted, I'm not as popular as these letters make me out to be and she might not actually know what my real name is in the first place, but it's still a security risk. Stephen. It's so… Strange. I don't think you'd like it. I certainly don't. Who the hell names their kid 'Stephen'? I feel sorry for the people out there that actually have that on their birth certificate. Their parents must all be delusional.

I dreamt of you last night. I'm not sure why. I've devoted this time for you and it's been working; why are you still in my head? It isn't fair, you know. If you could leave me alone, I would really appreciate it. You're like a ghost clinging on to me. It's not pleasant. Well. Allow me to rephrase that. It's very pleasant, but not at all practical. I'm simply glad I started writing these before my missions began. I'd be too distracted to be safe. I plan to do anything I have to, mind you, but I'd rather come home to you with scars instead of in a body bag. Or nothing but my identification tag.

My identification tag is intriguing. It looks like a medical ID tag, one of the bracelet ones, but it serves the same purpose as dog tags in the military. The code is only accessible if it is pulled off of the band so it can't be taken without me knowing about it. On the outside, I'm Stephen Jones, diabetic. On the inside, I'm a six digit code that the government can pull up to see my profile. The code changes for every mission so it can't be used if someone somehow gets ahold of it. Isn't that clever? I think so. The only downside is that if I do die and my body cannot be recovered, only the identification tag, you'll be given a plaque that reads a name different than my own. That's a bit unfortunate. But I can't expose my real name, I suppose.

The mission starts tomorrow. It'll be a simple one, like I've said. Maybe I'll have it finished before the end of the week. Slovenia is nice, yes, but I'd like to work as quickly as possible. Like I said, I'm aiming for three months. You'll be mad, yes, but three months isn't so long. A month after I come back, and everything will be back to normal between us, I guarantee. I'll see you soon.

Faithfully yours,  
SH


	5. Day 5

Dear John,

So. The funeral's tomorrow, is it? Mycroft said that he managed to get a closed casket funeral. You won't have to worry about looking at 'me', then. That's good. Very good. Best not to risk having you or Lestrade create a fiasco by declaring that my body's not actually in there. The stupid bloke that was killed after kidnapping those children will be in there instead, for the weight of it; it's not like you know my weight, especially after I've supposedly been drained of blood and other bodily fluids, so I think all's safe there.

I also heard that there are going to be forget-me-nots there. Don't get me wrong, it's a very good choice of flowers, much better than some alternatives, but I can't help but laugh at the thought of them. Did you know the meaning of them is a connection that lasts through time, or fidelity and loyalty despite separation? Interesting choice, then. Mycroft didn't say who requested those, you or him, just that they'd be there. I can't complain. I like forget-me-nots. They're rather nice, I think. Not that it would do me any good to complain anyway. Can't exactly change it.

Anyway, apart from that, I have some news. After today, I will not have any direct contact with Mycroft for three weeks. It will be just me, and any other operatives that I meet on the way. It depends on how long the job lasts, which, in this case, seems to be proving more than I had originally predicted. Slovenia is pretty on the outside, but there seems to be something odd to it. It might be a good idea to put off contact until I'm out of the country; I started my investigation today, and there seems to be something below the surface of this drug ring business. It's rather interesting. Not quite my forte, as I definitely prefer murders, but I suppose we'll just have to see where this goes.

I'd ask how you are, but I can imagine. Have you scheduled with Ella yet? You should. The sooner, the better. I know you. Once the grief has worn off, you're going to be angry. Very angry. I've always sensed that in you; that you were more violent than you liked to let on. I suppose it's not hard to deduce. You weren't satisfied with being a doctor, so you went to war. Sure, we can attribute that solely to the fact that you wanted more excitement, but there was more to it than that, wasn't there? You got angry when you couldn't help someone, and so you'd take it out on the other side. Remember how you put me in a choke hold when we went to see the woman? You told me you had bad days. I think you were being much more honest than you usually are. I'm not around for you to take your anger out on anymore, though, so seeing a therapist would be good for you. It would be good for everyone, actually. And Ella, of all people, will understand.

This technique is working, by the way. In case you wanted to know. I can put you aside and think about what's really important here. I can focus on the mission which, as I said, is becoming a little bit more difficult than I had first envisioned. No intel on whether Moran is still here, either. That, of all things, is the most disheartening. I might have to extend the three months by a month or so to track him down. It won't take longer than that, though. I'll still aim for three months, but you should be aware of any possible extensions.

I can't wait to return. Slovenia is nice, but London is better. I know the streets there; the people. It's no use to build a new homeless network here since I'm going to be leaving soon, so I must make do with doing favors here and there for bits and pieces of information. Quite tedious, but I already have a route cordoned off. That's one advantage I have right now. The rest will have to be made in time. Not to mention that the air is too clean. It's insufferable. Unfortunately, Slovenia is a place where you can sustain a smoking habit. Dreadful, really. I can't indulge those urges without possibly impairing myself on further missions. In this case, I don't have you or Lestrade to save me. My chances must be as high as I can get them. Even if that means resisting cigarettes. Haven't had a smoke since that Christmas, and I plan on carrying on that record. You'd be proud of me for that, at least. Both you and Lestrade.

I can't think of anything else to write here. My hour's almost up anyway; I'll need to get to bed soon. You'd think it a triumph if you knew how early it is, but I wouldn't celebrate just yet if I were you; I'm going to up early tomorrow to try and tail a man from this crime ring. I want to see where they're keeping everything. And if he sees me, well- you know how much I excel at acting. Stephen Jones is a mere tourist that wanted to get ahead of the regular crowds and got lost, nothing else. I have no doubt that it will fool him. In any case, I'm still counting on three months. Counting the days. I'll see you soon.

Faithfully yours,

SH


	6. Day 6

_A/N- Passages that are in brackets and italics [like this] means that Sherlock has striked them out. Strikeout isn't a feature on here so I just improvised :)_

* * *

Dear John,

Turns out that tailing that man was not so good of an idea as I thought it was. Either that or I've grown complacent in some of my abilities since we became partners. I was caught and only barely managed to lie my way out of this situation. Didn't manage to do it quickly enough to avoid a bit of an injury, however. I really should have asked for some lessons in treating wounds from you before I left. It's only a small cut on my upper arm but stitches were in order, and I fear I've botched them. Soon as I can find my way to a library and the subsequent computers, I'm going to look up how to properly suture. If I still have three more months of this, then I suppose it would be well within reason that I learn how to do it properly.

Truth be told, I almost asked for you to stitch it for me when I got back to the safe house.

There will be a small scar, but I don't mind it. I'll have to be more careful from now on, that's all. It'll serve as a reminder and, as long as that thug doesn't remember exactly where he inflicted it, then there's no way I can be identified for it. He was the only one around at the time, after all. It will be interesting, though. This drug ring is extending further than I had originally anticipated. Just before noon, I managed to stumble upon the corpse of a man not long killed. He'd been stabbed so many times, including in the face, that it was impossible to identify him without the aid of his ID. I suppose I shouldn't be too excited over a murder, as they do happen everywhere and not just in London, but there was something… Different about this one.

Remember the case with Soo Lin Yao and the Black Lotus Tong? This seems to be something similar, I believe. The murdered man had a tattoo on the outside of his wrist of a perthro\- an ancient rune that typically meant mysteries, skills, and, perhaps most importantly, initiation. My attacker had a matching one. Don't worry though, I didn't touch the victim; it was easy enough to see it from how he'd been left after death. Not that it would have mattered. Had the police actually managed to track me down, they'd find nothing but DNA of a dead man. I did call them, though, with a throwaway phone to alert them of what had I had found. I don't know if the man had a family but if he did, they deserved to know. Just like they deserve to have those responsible behind bars. I came here for one reason, but now I find myself with three. The crime ring, Moran, and this victim need all be taken care of before I move on. If that's a surprise to you, I must wonder how much you paid attention to my character while you knew me.

Enough talk about the mission. That's not the reason I write to you. Yes, you're marvellous at encouraging my own genius, but it's hardly effective to look for the reflection thousands of miles away and no hope of a reply to this letter. It would certainly make me look like a lunatic to write letter after letter to you, send them off somewhere that I know won't reach you, and wait for a reply. That would be the very definition of insanity- doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

Therefore, I think it's due to change the subject. Today was the funeral, yes? It will have been over by now, I suppose. I never really wanted a big funeral, and I hope Mycroft honored that. I doubt many people would have shown up even if it had been an elaborate affair anyway. Wasn't really well liked, as I'm sure you know. Though I'm sure there would be plenty of people there to put on airs. I wonder if Anderson or Donovan went. That would have been interesting. Though I'm not sure if it would be the good kind of interesting, or the bad. Depends on whether you saw them and punched them, I suppose. Wouldn't put it past you, especially considering you've been close to doing just that when they were attempting to get under my skin. But you also have self restraint; I'm glad for your protection of my honour, but I'm also glad you didn't ever give in to that urge. Hopefully you haven't this time around either. Don't think that would look too good on your record. Not that Mycroft wouldn't wipe that away, but it'd still look bad. Hypothetically.

If they were sincere about it, I wouldn't mind them attending. The two of them have a lot of potential; hopefully they learn from this. Despite my general dislike for the both of them, I think they are simply too sure of themselves and are unwilling to accept any help. It could be their downfall. Hopefully my own apparent suicide made them realize that self righteousness is not the way to go about their line of work; that they need to examine a case from all facets and not just the few that would support their narrative. Anderson and Donovan could have bright futures in store for them- they only need to learn to listen.

I wonder how you are. How you reacted. Did you cry, John? I hope that you didn't. No man is worth your tears, least of all me. Though I have to wonder if you showed up at all. There's a very good chance that you would have skipped out on it. Or could you have maybe given a eulogy? Not likely, I think. You find that sort of stuff difficult. I just wish _[I had told you how I felt]_ that we could have had more time. Had I been able to predict this, I wouldn't have taken you for granted. There are many things I regret, but I think not appreciating you while I had you would be one of the worst.

The only thing I can do now is seek your forgiveness. When I come back, I'll appreciate you, I promise. That will never be a mistake I ever repeat. I just have to be patient for the time that I can make it up to you. I will make it up to you. I'll see you soon.

Faithfully yours,  
SH


	7. Day 7

Dear John,

And so Sunday rolls 'round again.

Strange to think that, as of today, I will have been officially dead for a whole week. Imagine that. And I'm not even around to witness the consequences of it. I don't suppose there would be much apart from you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. Other than you three, I'm certain that life continues on as normal. Even then I suspect that I will be forgotten in time. I can't even justify to myself why you'd remember me fondly in three months' time, when I'm supposed to come home. You'll likely just think on how many times I almost got you killed, when I was the cause of your injuries. To be perfectly honest, I more can see you punching me when I return because it means you'll be back in danger all the time again. Not a pleasant future for you.

If I could, I'd leave you to it. To your life, to your job, to whatever woman you'd find and want to settle down with. Your life would be infinitely easier without me. And yet, you keep pulling me back. I'm not sure how much I appreciate that, to be perfectly honest. Things would be better for you without me, and yet the promise of you at home won't let me slow down.

I don't have much else today. It's a waiting game right now. There's going to be a break- a point where I can act. But for right now, that's not possible.

Honestly, I can't think of a thing to say. I just keep thinking about last Sunday. If I had done something different, would things have turned out better? If I had let you know, could you have helped me? Or would that be participating in your death? Could I have left a clue at the flat for you to find to know I wasn't dead? Should I have waited a little longer to leave? Could I have taken down Moriarty different? Would it have been better to throw both of us off the roof? I don't know. I suppose that's the part that is the most frustrating. I just don't know.

Not knowing. I'm not used to that, John. Even with you, I got to the point where I could predict the vein of which your actions would fall into. Perhaps not predict it to the specific action, but I can tell you, even now, what road you're likely to travel down based on your emotions. You're going to drink, and you're going to forego going to work, and then you're going to take up extra shifts because you feel guilty and it forces you to not think about me, and then you're going to move on. Hopefully. The only other option is that you'll forget about me.

Please don't forget about me.

My arm is healing nicely, by the way. I remembered some things from you; didn't tear my stitches at all. I suspect that by tomorrow I'll have full range of motion again, which will be nice. After all, it's to be an early day again. I need the sleep to prepare for it, so this is the end of this letter. You'd be proud to know what I learned from observing you, I think. I'll show you all the skills I employed when I return home. I'll see you soon.

Faithfully yours,  
SH


	8. Day 8

Dear John,

When I was a child, I used to love jumpers. Did you know that? My favorite was a yellow one, with black patterning. I wore it all the time. It was warm for winter and blistering for summer, but I would roll up the sleeves. Mum disliked it because I always got it dirty and she was forever patching up holes in the fabric. I'm pretty sure I didn't actually lose it like Mum said I did; I have a strong feeling that what really happened was that she binned it the moment she thought I wouldn't throw a tantrum without it. I can't really blame her for it, either. I was a bit of a monstrous child. She was well within her rights to trash it. It wasn't long after that that I started wearing button ups, even outside of school hours.

If it seems strange to you why I'm wasting time writing to you about what I wore as a child, allow me to clarify: I bought a jumper today. It's comfortable, and I like it but it isn't… All that I was hoping for. It looks like one of yours, feels like it, but it isn't. It isn't, because there's no hole in the bottom hem, and the shoulders aren't stretched out, and it doesn't smell like you. I'll keep using it, because it will be warm for sleeping. Even though it's more of a pitiful excuse to have a reminder of home than anything else.

As for the rest of my day, it was well. I managed to apprehend one member of the gang and hand him over to the police. They've taken measures to be sure he can't get out any sort of information to the people he's working with pertaining to what I look like. I'm still a ghost in the crowd; nothing more than a spectre to the city. It reminds me of the months I spent homeless in London.

But that's a story for another letter.

The man is being questioned as I write. It's being handled as a drugs dealing charge, but I've left a list of questions for the officers to use that, when I go back in and review the footage, I should be able to discern whether or not he might be involved with the murdered man. You remember me telling you about him, yes? The autopsy came back early this morning.

Thirty-two stab wounds, five to the face, the rest scattered around the upper chest and shoulders. I estimate that the killer used size and strength to his advantage, sitting on the victim's abdominal in order to keep him down. Otherwise, there would definitely have been wounds to the vital organs. Organs bleed out quickly; it would have been an excellent place to cause the pain of being gutted, while ensuring the victim wouldn't have lived. Considering the passion that went behind this type of crime, it would have been a plus for the enjoyment of the murderer.

This should, if I'm predicting correctly, either lead me towards the center of the ring or to someone that will prove to be a better conduit there. Depending on the outcome, I may be gone for a few days. I'll try not to, but, you know. I suppose I won't always have the privilege of writing to you every day with some of these missions, should this one be any indication.

I took a quick moment to change into that jumper I mentioned. I was right. It's very warm. It's very tempting to retire to bed now, but I am afraid to report that sleeping is quite a bit more difficult at the moment than I should like. I've never slept much; as an infant, Mum often complained about how I never liked naps, and could go a full day on half a night's rest, if I decided it was worth my time. She likes to say that it was because I was born during the night. You can imagine how irrational and illogical that sounds to me. Needless to say, I've never really given it a moment's thought. Before I became entrenched in statistics and logic, I didn't care about those silly sorts of things. And once I was old enough to take it into account, I knew too much to indulge in it. Yet, I find myself now wondering if things like that have at least some form of… I don't want to say control, because that's not what it is. But perhaps a marginally amount of influence. Nature versus nurture.

I've taken enough time now. Apologies for the rambling. I'll try to keep it to a minimum next time. I'm sure you'd be delighted to know such obscure facts from my childhood, and I'd ask you for confirmation, but. Well. The both of us know that you're not going to respond. Unfortunate. But that's besides the point. Have a wonderful day, John. I'll see you soon.

Faithfully yours,  
SH


End file.
